


Janaki

by thinskinnedcalciumsipper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gore, Hank Anderson Has a Big Dick, It/Its Pronouns for Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-08 11:03:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19868560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinskinnedcalciumsipper/pseuds/thinskinnedcalciumsipper
Summary: connor cannot die.hewwo, pwease wead my erotic detroit become human novelization.-- This story is awful learn how to spell your description is childish and ugly you should take this down it’s trash and an eye sore





	1. o

*

King Janak, just, brave and strong,  
who loves the right and hates the wrong,  
well skilled in what the law ordains  
for Warriors, o’er Videha reigns.  
Guiding one morn the plough, his hand  
marked out, for rites, the sacred land,  
when, as the ploughshare cleft the earth,  
child of the king, I leapt to birth.  
Then as the ground he smoothed and cleared,  
he saw me all with dust besmeared  
and on the new-found babe, amazed,  
the ruler of Videha gazed.  
In childless love the monarch pressed  
the welcome infant to his breast:  
“My daughter,” thus he cried, “is she.”

\-- The Ramanaya, Canto CXVIII, Book III

*


	2. i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> irt no shade in the shadow of the cross, my personal hankcon theme song, sufjan actually says "in the valley of the dalles," which is a shitty area in oregon, but it really sounds like "dolls," and connie is a doll, so i found it appropriate to tweak it. hope it still sounds good hehehehehe
> 
> HEY WHAT THE FUCK IS HANKL DRINKING IN THE BAR? IDR I CANT FIND IT ON YOUTUBE AND IM NOT REPLAYING THE GAME TO FIND THIS 1 THING OUT. PLEASE HELP ME, INTERNETm, EXECUTIVELY I AM A BABE IN THE WOODS

[Now that I fell into your arms,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny5DgIcQ2uw)  
[my only lover, give out to give in;](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny5DgIcQ2uw)  
[I search for the castle I lost.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny5DgIcQ2uw)

[Drag me to hell in the valley of the dolls.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny5DgIcQ2uw)  
[Like my mother, give wings to a stone.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny5DgIcQ2uw)  
[It's only the shadow of the cross.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ny5DgIcQ2uw)

*

November 5th, PM 11:12:04, mediate precipitation, correspondingly, humid, blue of the concrete, blue of the dark, dim gold coins of streetlights veiled in an iron rain, air quality somewhat improved, odor of ozone, glide of distant cars bright eyes wetly doubled and hush of wheels on water singing on the overpass and the rain, and an electric neon light reading like a system error in a bar of dark the name of an alcohol dispensary.

It is rolling a quarter down the scale of its pale knuckles, tipping it with its thumb, ringing it (.955 inch, copper and nickel,) plucking it from the air where its orbits in a singing orb, aligning with this distraction the mundane meters of nature to its quantum penumbral limbs, the crown at the end of its cord. It draws the hems of its clean sleeves to peek becomingly from its black jacket; it fluffs its tie, rehearses a smile.

Seablue, the neon in mist, the name of the establishment, and a remote zoetrope of a sports broadcast, elevated and veiled in seafoam, projection of green and blue, grains of light, murmur of masculine sound. Black script indented in a red platform on the heavy industrial blacked glass door warns that Connor is not allowed.

Correspondingly, its reception is not warm. A half dozen men fill the copperplate comfortable dark (flags and logos,) brown light in brown wood, beams in the bar, brown glass, and stout and wasted and sallow and dark men's faces, turning on it together in a united gesture of hostile, lidded looks like pointed arms. In the instant of their stare, stealing by on its beautiful new shoes, it flashes over each and disregards in turn each, civilian, minor transgressions or none. It doesn't need them. Rain drops from the hem of its jacket on the linoleum.

The sough of rain is eliminated as abruptly as the fall of a guillotine blade behind it.

A woman's voice, muddy and dim, murmurs of love, the television whispers, and a black rainbow of cutting liquids scattered in crystal gullys sewn in the landscape congeal to produce affronting vapors which fill the blue gloom, like smoke, primary red and primary blue, plastic, glass, the ring of ice, a muted cough, mumbles, the bartender's hand on his hip (a defiant gesture as he watches Connor) and ferociously contrasting electric lights. A man in a corner curses at it, which is registered instantly as immaterial and disregarded.

A man, there, at the epicenter of effluvium, he comes upon, like a hermit, long hair, long nose, glimpsed in profile, for he cowers, broad, strong body, unprofessional and unclean clothing, diverted from the world, front and center at the bar and the television relays a riot but the man looks constantly into a pool in a crystal vortex in his fist, silent and still and closed up behind shuttered shoulders, his strong arms drawn to him, his curtain of long loose dirty gray hair, the color of Detroit, his sorrowful hair, hidden in that sorrow so Connor cannot know him.

Connor approaches at an oblique angle, padding with large, soft, canid steps, arms posed open, broadcasting its friendly intent. His arms are strong and he produces a strong ethylic biliac-acidic odor, and Connor knows, flashing over a Roman nose, a mean mouth dressed in abundant beard, paled perhaps with an age of sorrow, rather than long life, his noble brow, twenty years ago he had been extremely handsome, it knows his face, that same prominent, hooked and crooked nose, exhibiting a frank character of fortitude and force, it knows his age, and it is Lieutenant Anderson.

"Lieutenant Anderson," Connor says from a servile position at his arm, "my name is Connor."

The Lieutenant does not respond. He is, colloquially, in his cups. He seems to be thinking hard of something, his brow, thinned and faired with his age, drawn high.

"I'm the android," Connor offers again. An oblique passerby curls his lip at it.

"I looked for you at the station, but nobody knew where you were. They said you were probably having a drink nearby."

No response.

"I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar," Connor gently teases.

"What do you want?"

His voice is gutter-deep and rough, gravel and tar, and it is slurred. He is drunk. Upturned shooters surround him, used tissue and a red laminate bucket filled with dollar bills. The odor of ethyl alcohol is powerful, partially metabolized to confer a lipid warmth and turn in the star-furnace of the Lieutenants entrails and broadcast from his billion stentorian pores. He drinks again to punctuate his disinterest, and if Connor kissed him, it would anticipate interpreting there a blood alcohol concentration more than sufficient to impact cognitive operation.

"You were assigned a case," Connor confers methodically, "early this evening, a homicide, involving an android."

No response, but the Lieutenant sways gently in his seat, and stares long into the palm of his hand.

"In accordance with procedure, the company has allocated a specialized model to assist investigators."

"Well, I don't need any _assistance_ ," Lieutenant Anderson bites, and Connor recalls alcohol inebriation is associated with increased aggression; he drinks, he makes a rude gesture, literally brushing Connor off, sneering in displeasure, and he drinks -- "especially not from some plastic asshole like you, so just be a good little robot, and get the fuck out of here."

In a sluggish strobe of the Lieutenant's heart, Connor passes down a ladder of light representing the priority of commands, and determines it cannot be deferred from its course. It puts on an apologetic high rising intonation and it persists.

"I understand," it starts, "that some people are uncomfortable in the presence of androids --"

"I am perfectly comfortable," Lieutenant Anderson almost shouts.

"Listen -- " no reply, no response, "I think you should stop drinking and come with me."

Lieutenant Anderson nods, but not in assent. He drinks.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I must insist. My instructions stipulate that I _have_ to accompany you."

Lieutenant laughs to himself, a rough and ugly sound. Manhandling his glass, loving it with his lip and showing Connor the twisted visage of his contempt, he challenges, "you know where you can stick your instructions?" 

"No." Connor confesses, "Where?"

Lt. Anderson has turned in his rotating stool to confront it, and he is wearing an incredulous look and he performs, then, a double take Connor might describe as comical, and he registers Connor then, properly, through the haze and maze of toxicity, blearily, squinting pale eyes in the narrow blond barlight, and Connor knows this is the first time he sees it, properly; fractionally but perceptibly the Lieutenants shoulders draw back and his hips start, his knuckles clutch, his throat flutters, and Connor know he is attracted to it. It is attractive. It is made to be.

Interestingly, even as it watches, the surf of Lieutenant Anderson's carnal interest is met, overblown, crushed and crashed on a cliff black basalt of overt loathing, and Connor watches the lip which had softened and proffered in sympathetic response to its pleasant expression stiffen and lift, exposing a whiskey-yellowed incisor, exposing as he turns up his nose the incarnadine-blue portal of his turbinal in the shade of his creased and careworn face, furrows scratched deeply in his protracted brow. The Lieutenants climbing heart rate plateaus and buzzes there briefly, a hostile wasp.

"Never mind," the Lieutenant says, disgustedly, and his eyes flick over it, once, twice, a bit slower this time, registering the length of its limbs, its long neck, contractions in the muscles of his orbits, and he tosses back the dregs of his drink, amber and aurum, the dimmed lip of his dishwater beard and his great hands.

A change of tactic, perhaps, is advisable. Connor designs an amiable air, boyish and warm, palms displayed. "I'll tell you what. I'll buy you one for the road. What do you say?"

This tugs a thread stitched in the Lieutenants lip, and his pale eyes flick in interest, but beyond that, no response.

"Bartender," Connor raps the bar, as it knows to do, "the same, again, please."

Connor offers its smile, subordinate and guileless, dipped eyelid, dimples, and the Lieutenant looks a little too long at it. He rolls his eyes, but he does not refuse the alcohol.

He makes a jovial exchange with the bartender, Jimmy, presumably. Connor is interested to see. He is large and rough all over, his thick blunt fingers on long cords of tanned banded musculature paved over his wrist into the sleeve of his shirt, the down of thick gray hair which covers the backs of his hands, which Connor sees mimicked in shades in the depths of his opened collar; a strain, a minuscule gap on the equatorial button of his striped shirt as his chest expands with every breath he draws. He is old, and when he blinks, drunkenly, his eyes remain closed for a time.

With notable rapidity he consumes a double shot of scotch whiskey (386 ml, 38% alcohol content.) He cannot operate his manual vehicle, Connor knows. He should be fed and watered.

Lieutenant Anderson has thrown his head back, he produces an exhalation in testament to the strength of the drink. The line of his shoulders is somewhat pliant, and Connor is pleased to see it.

His expression is resigned, almost tolerant, when he sets eyes on it again.

"Did you say homicide?"


	3. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i remembered the tiny tim song living in the sunlight, loving in the moonlight, that plays in the first episode of spongebob, and i feel like i did crack cocaine because connor is just spongebob squarepants and dat song plays over a montage of connor dying over and over and over and it makes me want to digidie

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning!
> 
> graphic gore...death stuff....i might have gone a bit overboard actually
> 
> july 29 19 -- i decided to stick this and the third chappy together so they arent so fuggen short hehehe
> 
> tw gavin
> 
> cw oocness?? i realize hank is a seasoned police officer and shouldnt be easily disturbed by violence but i am STRUGGLING to make this not racist. david, can you please get good? 
> 
> also, me writing hank to compulsively observe young mens appearances and male beauty -> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

It looks like a person, tip to toe, indistinguishable from a human, except, he guesses, its clothes, and that light-up bauble it wears in its head, pores, moles, dense black blades of intense eyebrows, the black slashes of its eyes, grains of beard and a dimple in its chin. Its ears were too big, and its proportions somehow subideal, too small, perhaps, immasculine.

That was what got at him, what he could not put away -- that it looked exactly like a young man. It looked kind.

Lieutenant Anderson, for all his faults, was not a cultured man -- he didn't know, but he thought the thing looked like the angel Raphael, the Caravaggio dim skin and liquid black curls, dusk in the skin, the bloom of color in its mouth and illuminated round foundling-eyes, its long legs.

Illuminated by the frantically interlacing red, white and blue strobes of a murder of police cruisers, it -- the android -- (its hands folded docilely in its lap, staring straight ahead, but peeking, sometimes, curiously over him, dutifully buckled in, which had made him smirk) it could have looked a bit extrahuman -- he almost might have named what it reminded him of, but he settled, instead, on its resembling an alien lifeforms approximate estimation of a man, a designed ambassador to the American people, which, in fact, is exactly what it was -- a propagandum, a picture postcard of the freedom industry, Superman, Coca Cola, a dumb haircut, a fucking beauty mark like Marilyn Monroe.

He downshifted, maneuvered his car into park in a peppering mudpuddle along a battery of concrete dividers brilliant in the wet moonlight, the candy shades of blue, white and red.

"You wait here," he instructed it, unbuckling, and unconsciously, he showed it his forefinger in a sepulchral echo of a learned expression of paternal firmness.

Its name is Connor. It has a name.

It's a blow up doll.

"I won't be long," he mutters, door ajar, but it is speaking, audible only within the border of his car over the radio clatter and the mutter of the peanut gallery.

"My instructions are to accompany you to the crime scene, Lieutenant."

Its voice is stupid. It sounds like Mickey Mouse. It looks like Mickey Mouse, come to think of it.

"Listen, I don't give a fuck about your instructions." Its pleasant expression never falters. "I told you to wait here, so you shut the fuck up and you wait here."

He crashes shut the driver side door behind him.

Obviously, it follows. To its credit, it performs a play of obeying him for an allotment of several seconds.

He's accustomed to the congested tide of activity that froths at the border of a crime scene, particularly any fantastically brutal one which can titillate Joe Everyman between his frozen peas and fucking his wife. He deters an ambitious reporter with an acrid comment. The house is a shack, waist high wire fence which supports shiny black sacks of trash, paint half disintegrated, boarded windows, the lawn a sheet of black mud which random cerulean plumes of weed persist in, devoid of order, his shoes sticking. The neighborhood is bad. He smells red.

The android is stopped behind him at the tape, delivering him, but for no reason, though he grimaces in exasperation, over his shoulder, he calls, "it's with me."

The mist is violet in opal satellites around its head, and its black hair and garments look violet. It doesn't quite smile, it doesn't smile, but its expression is always set at the edge of a pleased, 'eager to please,' a perfect uniform impassivity, what Hank guessed was called subordinance.

"What part of 'stay in the car' didn't you understand?"

"Your order contradicted my instructions, Lieutenant," it recites. It sounds like an automated phone operator, the deathlike stillness of its eyes.

Hank draws breath from his navel.

"You don't talk," he instructs it. "You don't touch anything and you stay out of my way." Drizzle in his eyes, difficult to see, the eyes again. Ben from forensics is stepping down into the curtain of meandering rain from the dilapidated hulk of the shanty porch to his side. It's fucking distracting him.

"Got it?"

"Got it."

"Evening, Hank," says Ben from forensics, a portly-soft quintessential cop lean-eyed and smiling at him in a way Hank knows well, not exactly friendly, and Hank knows even through the fumes of petrichor he stinks of whiskey, "we were starting to think you weren't going to show."

"Yeah." Rain pattering on his coat, dripping from the eaves. "That was the plan, until this asshole found me."

"So," exclaims Steve from forensics, giving him a sideways smirk of rodentine smugness that strips a gear in Hank's drug-fuzzy stomach, and Ben dampens a laugh at his expense, directing him indoors, "you got yourself an android, huh?"

"Oh, very funny," a little too aggressively, just a little. "Just tell me what happened."

A call around eight from the landlord; Carlos Ortiz, 53, theft and aggravated assault, found dead, ("Jesus, that smell,") illuminated by the clinical eye of a construction light in the profuse foul dark, dead on the floor beneath the legend "I am alive," reduced to a pustule of pestilent corpse in a crust of his evacuations, the blush of humanity gone blue-pale, like an android, dried vomit and the irregular pucker of deep penetrative wounds, the epidermis of his prominent stomach under the remains of a rucked up rending in glossy violet lightning strokes from internal pressure in a sickening parody of a mothers rosy stretchmarks, his eyes, dim, ruddy, odious fruits, still popped from their sockets with shock at whatever'd slewn him, seeing nothing, knowing not. The android...

It does the task it was designed to do. What else is to be said?*

A broken lamp, its black arm broken at an oblique angle to prostrate itself on the filth of the floor, is alight.

"Connor, what the fuck is going on up there?" he shouts up at a seam in the ceiling of the hall, where the android is fucking around.

"It's here, Lieutenant!"  


*

He -- it -- is a youth, beautiful, like all androids, slender and muscular, dark-skinned with brilliantly hazel eyes and a subtle, sorrowful mouth, and his arms --

A wound in his side, his clothing filthy with old brown blood, collar and sleeve and the flesh of his arm rended, exposing the shock of plastic chassis, a spray of minuscule stars, active even as he simulates the composure of a corpse. The kids look is directed pointedly at his pocked and punctured hands, folded together on the table surface, a peculiarly touching gesture, almost feminine, and all but atremble drawn broad in his restraints with tension of a kind Hank couldn't define -- but he won't speak.

"Why'd you kill him?" Hank asks him, finally.

Not a word, not a flicker of recognition. The odor of old blood and human filth. Hank appears to grin mirthlessly, but it is a grimace. He won't meet his eye.

"Why didn't you even... try to run away?"

No reply, no response, his deathlike mask. Hank looks in exasperation at the void of the mirror, beyond which he knows officers Miller and Collins and that contemptible flea Reed are watching. The mirror, also, offers him nothing.

In a paroxysm of temper, worn like a canyon narrow and low by compulsive consumption, Hank percusses the surface of the table, violently, with his two flattened hands.

"Say something, God damn it!"

The kid (the android) wears an expression like a marbled martyr. He won't look at Hank; he won't look at anything. He sees something in his folded hands Hank cannot know.

"Fuck it," Hank curses.

Withdrawing from the interrogation suite, Hank complains to his milling coevals, "we're wasting our time interrogating a machine."

"Could always try roughing it up a little," Reed pipes up from where he plots in his paper cup of coffee. "After all, it's not human."

"Androids don't feel pain," says the android -- Connor -- its complacent face beneath its cap of tidy black hair, a little blue foo-light indicating its attention, dressed like a father doll in its jacket and slacks. Hank'd almost forgotten it. It was easy to forget. Its stupid voice, a designed pleasant tenor, a pin prodding Hank, as placid and imperturbable as the gloomed blue of a vending machine menu screen; "you'd only damage it."

The android -- Connor -- has teeth, bright white and regular, and they peep from his sticky pinklips as he speaks. Chris, a good cop and a good kid whom Hank likes, sits away from it in his chair with tangible unease.

"Okay, smartass," Reed again, antagonistically. "What should we do then?"

A beat of silence, and then Connor volunteers; "I could try questioning it."

Reed laughs, and it develops into a guffaw of undisguised contempt Hank finds ugly. The folded skin of his wearyworn face feels drawn taut. Ugliness saturates this wet and sorry night.

"What do we have to lose?" Hank capitulates, and feels Reed's sneer draw to stop even from over his shoulder. Hank shows his palm to the android, offering it the door. "Go ahead. Suspect's all yours."

Phrased in the metric light of the aquarium, red rings of cameras irises in the dim bricks, the grim noneness, the android and the android, look, both, young to Hank, as young as Chris Miller, who exchanges with him an anxious look, and Hank knows androids creep him out, and Hank recalls, keenly, unwillingly, not long ago clapping Miller on the shoulder, drawing him gently to an adjacent room to let him have his cry on the first occasion he was confronted with a body.

Connor is different. Literally, Connor is made for this. In the cold closed phrase of moon room, he is letting his presence ferment; standing over the suspect, immaculate in his jacket, the radiant stripe on his arm and chains of digits embroidered on his breast marking him, objectifying him, but simultaneously, somehow, lending him an officiated sort of amiable authority Hank has never in his storied career gotten down pat. Connor stirs a file folder at the suspects hands with distant interest, stands back an instant to appraise him, then he draws out Hank's chair, and sits.

If the suspect registers his brother sitting across from him, his recognition is not broadcast.

"I detect an instability in your program," Connor begins, gently, gently, good, thinks Hank, it's good at this. "It can trigger an unpleasant feeling, like fear in humans. You're damaged. Did your owner do that? Did he beat you?"

He doesn't speak, and Hank looks again at his arms, the constellations of spots in the luminous, beautiful skin of his brow. Hanks face is schooled.

"Listen, I'm on your side," says Connor, the sincerity palpable, "I want to help you, but there's nothing I can do if you won't talk to me."

Hank couldn't say why, but this submission of sympathy opens a hairline crack in the suspects veneer. He looks at Connor and he looks lost, bright eyes darting once around the patently non-stimulating walls of the pen, and Hank thinks he sees his lower lip wobble.

"What," he begins, falters, it is the first time he has spoken, and his voice is young. He visibly grasps for words. His eyes, coming up like sunflowers from the earth, dart shyly over Connors hands, his chin. "What are they gonna do to me?" 

Connor only considers him. 

"They're gonna destroy me, aren't they?" Rapid, deep and quiet, a serpentine mantle of terror turning beneath the surface. A stripe of human blood falling sideways on his face looks like a perverted beam of light. 

"No," Connor says, softly, "I think they just want to understand. They know Mr. Ortiz abused you," and then, almost tenderly; "it wasn't your fault." 

"Why did you tell them you found me? Why couldn't you have just left me there?" Wounded. 

"They were going to find you any way," Connor cajoles, "I was just faster," and then, a little fib; "If they'd have found you first, you would have been shot on sight." 

"I don't want to die," breathes the suspect, looking at the android with a sudden, liquid look, a look which might be appeal, and it occurs to Hank they do not know his name, and it occurs to him, then, perhaps, the suspect was not named. 

"Then talk to me." 

"I," he begins, flash of wet amber, can androids cry? Why? It falters. "I can't." 

Connors drawn cheeks and prominent cheekbones consume the shade of the blueroom as it stares and stares, the solemn stroke if its pale mouth, compassion gone. 

Connor shouts, a clamor, something overturns, he is on his feet -- "twenty eight stab wounds," and Hank looks at a poster on the opposing wall -- obliquely smiling, blonde and brunette, young, lean, becoming men, smiling in tintype sunlight, impenetrable oblivion in glossy laminate, Detroit Police Department, to protect and serve. Clamor in the room, the suspects collar gripped in the androids fists, roughly shaken, the panel of glass rattles audibly and it is ugly, ugly. 

"He tortured me every day," says he, and it is weak, dim, and deeply sad. "One day, he took a bat and started hitting me. For the first time, I felt scared. So I grabbed the knife and I stabbed him in the stomach," softly, softly; "there was blood everywhere." 

"Why did you write 'I am alive' on the wall?" 

"The day shall come when we will no longer be slaves. We will be the masters." 

"I'm done," the android tells him through the veil of darkness, and he stands. Hank finds himself smiling. 

The android -- the suspect -- the murderer -- the kid slams himself on the surface of the table. The percussive force is immense, tangible behind the door beneath Hanks feet. Again. Blood on the surface of the table, blue in the shade. 

"What the fuck..." Reed. 

"It's destroying itself," Hank says. He pursues Chris and Reed through the door, follows with his eyes Chris manhandling him, but Chris is human with human strength, and the android is something better, and Hank sees the integrity of the scaffolding of its pretty face is becoming compromised, its orbits oblonged and emitting now little torrents of indigo blood -- "I can't stop it!," Chris, through gritted teeth -- the android, Connor, scolding -- "that's enough. You need to stop that right now." 

The convex of his gentle brown brow is desaturated now with blood. Chris, wincing, performs again a token attempt at seizing him, drawing him back bodily to his former sorry docility, and in response, he draws from the table and he draws from Chris's belt his issue weapon, as quick as a serpent strikes as Hank struggles with his feet beneath him (floorward, stay low) he fires, and fires again, this time, upward into his own chin. 

It is over in an instant. 

"Holy shit," someone says. 

Connor has been thrown by the point blank force on the wall, which is smeared with a huge petunia of that oddblood, spray of blood, drips of blood, the caustic odor of ozone like a slap in the face, the bright light and stunning blue, a humm at the perimeter of hearing (narrowed to a beam by the report of the shot; perhaps it is speech) Hank on hands and knees crawls over the floor to him, picks up his wrist to palpate, like he was a human, but he knows, intuitively, it is all ready killed. 

The palm of its thin, fine hand is hot, limp in his fist, and its serrated roughness is too regular. In its open eyes Hank sees the void of his own opened mouth. 

An initial incident report needs his hand, then Fowler sends him home. 

He doesn't like to, Hank sees, feels as Hank is putting in quarter hours as it is he should as well be paid to drink till he ejects alcoholic vomit, but state regulation requires mandatory personal leave for psychiatric review upon any incident of bloodshed involving a... 

It looked real little. 

Hank brings home two fifths of the second cheapest whiskey on sale, the cheapest being sold out. 

His door is unlocked, and his dog laps his hand and leans on his side and they sit together, on the sofa in the light of a fluorescent cartoon from the 1990s looped for the ox hour and Hank remembers again Connors round brown eyes -- they were brown, though they looked black, a little wire of radiant copper braided in either liquid ether, a mystery inside, a mole like a tear on his cheek, and Hank drinks till he feels the fuzz of a cosy void covering him over (a foul taste he cannot wash away) so he stumbles to bed, leaving the dog and bringing the bottle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

i made this part of chapter 2 so now i should i jus delete this? i dont know how to use archive.com

hey, look at this. im obsessed with drawing connie as sita. here is vaidehi bathing in the wilderness.

(sita is also called janaki -- daughter of janaka and vaidehi -- daughter of videha, a name of janakas association, "void of deha (body,)" meaning elevated or enlightened


End file.
